But Not Broken Yet
by MondayVibes
Summary: The molten glares, slight limp, and foul mood, Mustang knew, could all be explained away by the early morning and foul weather. The sudden collapse and loss of consciousness... couldn't.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).

Thanks to my amazing beta duo, **Unlucky Alis** and **Very Swampeh** for their hard work. If you run across any typos, I hang my head in shame and claim full responsibility.

* * *

 **But Not Broken Yet**

 **Chapter One**

* * *

"This," Fullmetal tells him, and Mustang knows without even having to glance away from his reflection that the young man's mismatched arms are crossed firmly over his chest, his brows are furrowed in consternation, and his lips are curled into a deep frown. "This is a waste of my fucking time."

"For once, Fullmetal, I might actually be inclined to agree with you." As he speaks, Mustang tugs at the high collar of his uniform until the thing stops chaffing against the sensitive skin of his neck. A quick glance at the reflection of his desk, and he reaffirms that Lieutenant Hawkeye has had the forethought to set out his peaked cap for him. Excellent.

Fullmetal, the little bastard he is, snorts his derision. Narrowed golden eyes meet his in the still-dark window. "Hell's really frozen over if you're actually admitting that I'm right for once, Bastard."

"Or perhaps," he replies, "I'm simply not inclined to having my eardrums ruptured so early in the morning."

"Fuck you. You're the one who _ordered_ me to be a part of this bullshit. You should just be glad Al actually thinks I need to listen to you for some stupid-ass reason."

"Remind me to send him a letter with my overflowing gratitude, then." Satisfied with his appearance, Mustang turns on his heel and retrieves the cap from its resting place. It settles snuggly over his dark hair.

"Like I'm going to do a damned thing for you after you decide to pull this kind of shit."

He understands the young man's sour mood—really, he does—but this is quickly flying past annoying and settling somewhere between ridiculous and childish. Fortunately, he is both aware of how to act his age and of Fullmetal's habit of breaking things whenever he infers an insult; instead of pointing out the observation, he quirks a single eyebrow in Fullmetal's direction.

"If that's what you think, then I'll take this moment to remind you that this most certainly was not my idea. _All_ State Alchemists in Central were ordered to attend by the Furher himself."

Fullmetal makes a face as though he can't quite decide which string of profanities he most wants to hurl across the otherwise quiet office, but then seems to realize there really isn't anything he can say in retort anyway. Finally, he scoffs loudly, tugs sharply at his own uniform collar, and turns his gaze onto the wall over his left shoulder.

Like his superior officer, the Fullmetal Alchemist is clad in the proud blues and silvers of the Amestrian military. The gold cord wrapped around his right shoulder marks him as an officer, the stars and bars fixed to his epaulets mark him as a major, and the silver chain that disappears into a pocket marks him as a State Alchemist. The pallor of his face and the tense line of his jaw, however, mark him as equal parts tired and pissed off.

It's a feeling that Mustang, if he's willing to admit, is well acquainted with at this particular moment in time. He himself would very much rather be nestled between a thick, goose-down duvet and the arms of a nubile woman, both of which currently lay abandoned in his apartment on the other side of the city. While he respects the Fuhrer's decision to hold such an event on the weekend when more civilians are likely to attend…

No, he really can't say he does. The Fuhrer is a sadist, plain and simple.

"How long's this whatever the hell it is gonna last, anyway? Al's heard some rumours about a bioalchemist in Pendleton, and with the weather that's been going on in that area, we're going to have a hell of a time getting there." Fullmetal tugs at his collar again with an automail finger. "I figure the faster this shit's over with, the faster we can leave."

He's going to break the thing before the end of the day at this rate, and then Mustang's going to be the one who gets a complaint from one of the generals—or worse, from the Fuhrer himself—about having a poorly dressed subordinate.

If Mustang tries to reach out and stop the fidgeting, though, he's sure to end up with a broken finger or five.

He allows himself a sigh and a final glance in the window, then pulls his own silver watch from his breast pocket. They have to get going. "I expect it to last several hours at least. After all, there's a social function after the ceremony—which you're also expected to attend, I'll remind you—and I have no doubt that a number of the civilian elite will be interested in shaking hands with the famous Fullmetal Alchemist."

The famous alchemist in question offers him a single fingered salute. "Fan- _fucking_ -tastic," Fullmetal mutters, but at least he falls in step beside his superior officer as Mustang makes to leave, and that's a small blessing the man just can't refute. "Just what I wanted—to be paraded around like a goddamned show horse."

"Surely not a _horse_." Mustang's voice, the traitorous as it is, slides off his tongue like expensive oil. "A show pony perhaps?"

The high shriek of rubber against polished marble floors. When he glances back, Fullmetal has fixed him with a glare so heated that, if the laws of thermodynamics are to be believed, should soon burn a hole straight through his forehead.

"I will fucking _end_ you, Mustang," Fullmetal snarls. "I will fucking murder you in your sleep and no one will ever find your body."

"Duly noted." Casually, Mustang turns on his heel, tosses the words over his shoulder. His footfalls echo off the whitewashed walls. "But do please come along. The general in charge of planning the event is, shall we say, 'particular,' and wouldn't react well if two alchemists were late."

A beat of silence, a few creatively scandalous oaths, and then uneven footfalls cut through the air at his back. Fullmetal appears at his left shoulder. "You're a real bastard, you know that? I can't believe I have to stand next to you for this entire ceremony."

"Ah yes, the shame of having to pretend that a military unit actually has the capacity to act as a unit."

"Fuck you."

"If it's any consolation, we're expected remain silent while the Fuhrer and some of the higher ups deliver their speeches, so at least you won't be required to listen to me talk. Although," he adds after a moment's pause, "that also means I expect you to refrain from offering some expletive-filled commentary throughout the speeches."

A sidelong glance. Mismatched hands are stuffed firmly into pockets, as though that is the only way Fullmetal can keep himself from roundly throttling his commanding officer.

"Furthermore, do at least pretend to pay attention to what they're saying. You'll be under scrutiny from the public and several of the generals, and it could become… problematic for both of us if your usual antics were noticed."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Will you shut _up_ already? You're makin' my ears bleed."

Together, they descend the main stairway and enter the front atrium, joining the sea of blue uniforms as it ebbs and flows. Low conversation bubbles up in pockets, and the rare chuckle or call cuts above it all, but most of the alchemists look as tired as he feels. Several yawns puncture conversations, and hands develop a habit of flicking silver pocket watches open far more often than is strictly necessary.

He catches sight of Major Armstrong, bald crown adorned by his own peaked cap, bobbing heads and shoulders above the milling crowd. The Blacklung Alchemist is also there somehow—the man is a sneaky bastard, and must know Central HQ's side passages and back hallways like he knows his own research—and is perched against the front desk, leaning in a little too close to a hapless secretary.

Fullmetal disappears into the rustling sea of uniforms without a word, and he bites back a curse until he somehow spots the young man's golden spun ponytail a moment later. He's struck up conversation with a lovely brunette who, if memory serves, specializes in earth-based transmutations.

A half-dozen off-handed comments and a handful of double entendres shape themselves together, and Mustang carefully sets the ammunition aside for later.

A few stragglers filter into the atrium, trickling in from offices and dormitories stamped all over the command's sprawling grounds, and then the reedy voice of a man who thinks himself far more important than he actually is echoes off the high ceilings.

"Attention, please! Alchemists, I request your attention!"

The mumbled conversations die away and faces turn to the dark haired, thinly moustached General Fox. The man clears his throat and puffs out his chest—as though that would somehow make him look more like a capable officer and less like a horse playing dress-up. "Now, you all know how momentous this occasion is, and I'd like to thank you to taking the time to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the State Alchemist program with your fellow researchers and with Amestris as a whole. I do hope you're as eager as I am to see this wonderful event go off without a hitch."

Mustang highly doubts anyone here cares _half_ as much as that self-indulgent puttock.

"You'll notice that markers for each brigade have been placed about the atrium. When I call out your brigade, make your way to the designated marker. Arrange yourselves by seniority."

A few of the alchemists flick their fingers toward their foreheads to show understanding, and then the man is calling out numbers. Seventeenth brigade. Ninety-second. One sixty-fourth. The soldiers move into position, slotting themselves between the shoulders of their comrades and lining up like troops for inspection.

There's a brief moment of panic from Fox ("Where's the Silver Bullet Alchemist? Where the hell is Silver Bullet!") and Mustang idly wonders if the man will have a heart attack then and there. But really, even if he does, there's no way Mustang'd be allowed to just go back home and return to his bed. Besides, Josephine has most likely left by now anyway, so he allows himself just the barest of sighs.

Finally, three fifty-fourth is called out, and he tries not to shuffle his feet as he makes his way to an unremarkable spot of tile flooring. Fullmetal looks slightly more awake now, and narrows his eyes at his commanding officer as he falls in line.

"You seemed to be rather enjoying your conversation with Dolomite." The words, greased with something oily and wicked, slide out between Mustang's lips before he can bite them back.

Dammit, he needs to stop needling the young alchemist before he really does end up violently murdered.

Something not unlike a growl bubbles up from between Fullmetal's teeth, but the young man's wolf eyes are fixed firmly on General Fox as he speaks. "We've been comparing notes on the best ways to excavate rare earth metals. Not that it's any of your fucking business."

Mustang follows the younger alchemist's gaze, and briefly wonders how Fox doesn't spontaneously combust. But then Fox's eyes sweep over the room, pause in their direction, Fullmetal looks away, and the entire moment passes by like a sharp breeze. He tosses the idle question aside—after all, he knows better than most just how easy it is to become the target of Fullmetal's vitriol—and scrambles through his stockpile of insults with fervor.

Somehow, he still comes up empty.

The last few brigades fall into place, and a squad of Fox's aides race up and down the lines of soldiers, tweaking collars and righting caps. Then, finally, Headquarters' massive doors are eased open. They're lead like sheep into the autumn morning just as thin strands of sunlight break over Central.

Massive banners, depicting a pale leocampus rampant on a green field, snap in the brisk winds, waving at them from their places on the ramparts, the outbuildings, the windows of Headquarters. A score of vendors' tents line up near the southern and western gates. Marquees have been set up around the parade ground's perimeter, offering seating for the ceremony's most distinguished guests, Amestrian and foreign alike. Thousands of bodies, dressed in Amestris' proud blue or in colourful civilian clothing, mill about in the crisp, morning air.

Central Headquarters' parade grounds are completely—and, to be frank, brazenly—transformed for the occasion.

He scans the crowds as the hundred-something State Alchemists are directed onto a massive stage. Within the crowd, he sees Alphonse's helmet winking in the sunlight, and is certain that he catches a glimpse of Havoc's broad shoulders and Breda's ginger hair not a moment later. On the ramparts, hidden in the shadows, he picks out the not-quite-hidden forms of more than a dozen snipers.

He tightens his shoulders, swallows once. But his face remains passive, and not even his fists tighten. The barest glance over his left shoulder catches against Fullmetal's peaked cap and golden hair, shining even in the pallid light.

The young man is still scowling, and his eyes are sharp as he watches Fox step onto the stage.

* * *

The bitter air cuts across the parade grounds again, and Edward bites back a curse with an almost herculean effort. If he was sore and aching before having to show up for this stupid-as-shit ceremony, he'll be even worse off after having to stand around outside for an hour or more.

What a waste of fucking _time._

He glares at the back of Mustang's peaked cap as he follows the older alchemist across the grounds and up the transmuted stairs. At least, he thinks dourly, biting his cheek to hold back a yawn, at least there are risers on the stage, and the most freakishly tall alchemists—Armstrong among them—are being politely directed to stand off to the side so that no one is going to end up staring at a bunch of blue wool for the entire debacle.

From where he stands, he can make out a bunch of colourful vendor's stalls. Signs advertise souvenirs and pastries and coffee, and he idly wonders if he can somehow sneak out into the crowd to grab himself a mug—maybe two, probably three—before General Cocknugget decides to put them all to sleep with some boring-ass speech about honour and pride and the State Alchemist Corps.

His gaze flickers over the stars and bars on his right epaulet, and for the length of a heartbeat, he finds himself meeting Mustang's inscrutable eyes. He tears his gaze away, and his frown deepens. If that bastard's watching, even grabbing coffee might as well be a pipe dream.

Fuck.

The sunlight casts weak shadows across the crowds, and he catches the glint of it as it bounces off the top of his little brother's helm. He plays with the idea of tossing a single-fingered salute in Al's direction—it's his traitorous sibling's fault that he's even stuck here right now, after all—then sighs heavily and shoves that entertaining thought aside. With his shit luck, some reporter will snap a photo at the wrong time, or General Douchenozzle will notice something awry, or Mustang will glance over at him again, and he'd end up with Very Stern Orders to stay in Central for a month.

The autumnal air has teeth, and it worries at the folds of his uniform, snaps up whatever warmth he'd brought with him from within Headquarters, swallows it whole.

Thickly, he swallows another curse. He shifts a bit, rolls his shoulders without looking like he's doing so, winces as a dozen aches complain at the movement.

Damnit, he _hurts_.

The sigh that passes through his lips comes out as more of a huff, and beside him, Mustang clears his throat, quietly but meaningfully. A single eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, is raised in his direction.

Edward half-hides his face beneath the rim of the ridiculous hat perched on his head and fixes the man with a retaliatory glare. "It hasn't even fucking started yet," he mutters without moving his lips.

"I'm warning you, Fullmetal—"

"Oh, shove it."

Before Mustang has the chance to retort, one of the alchemists in from of them snorts, then suddenly develops a severe, hacking cough. The Colonel shoots a warning glance in his direction instead, and remains silent.

And it's probably a good thing, too, since General Dickweasel chooses that moment to saunter up to the podium resting at the centre of the stage. A thin smile is plastered beneath that thin mustache of his, and he waves a gloved hand at the masses before turning to the mannequin display of alchemists. His pale eyes dart over them, assessing their sharply pressed uniforms and squared shoulders, then finally offers a short nod of approval.

It's all Edward can do not to scoff. Like they need _his_ approval for anything.

"State Alchemists!" The man calls out. His pathetic, reedy voice is nearly torn apart by a particularly sharp gust of wind. "Atten- _shun_!"

Right hands snap to foreheads in sharp salutes, and Edward follows suit just half a beat later when Mustang elbows him. The Fuhrer and a dozen of the country's most powerful men saunter into public view, to thunderous applause.

He zones out completely somewhere between a recap of how the State Alchemist Corps came into fruition and a summary of their "illustrious" history, and thinks longingly about hot baths and plush beds and pots of coffee so strong that his limbs would feel jittery for days. His scarred shoulder and thigh, meanwhile, decide to launch a formal protest, complete with blazing red banners and shrieking voices, and the steady throb of their march matches the beat of his heart. A thousand other aches and pains decide to join in, bellied by the cool, damp air that teases the golden cowlick hanging between his eyes and the golden cord tangled around his right shoulder. All he can do is grit his teeth in retaliation.

More clapping, and Mustang nudges him again. He nearly smacks himself right in the face with his half-frozen automail, and he bites his tongue—just one more little discomfort—to keep the volley of finely honed curses at bay. Some retired old general with too little hair and too much beard lumbers up to the podium.

"You look pale." Mustang's lips barely move, and his voice is just barely audible above the old general as the man starts going on about the very first alchemists brought into the military's folds. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

All things considered, looking pale is the least of his fucking concerns. Edward fixes the older alchemist with the most venomous glare he can muster and doesn't bother coming up with a response.

Somewhere beneath all the thousands of bone-deep aches and sharper pains, he realizes just how _tired_ he is, too. His eyes are heavy and grimy, his head feels as though it's been stuffed with cat fur and soggy newspapers, and the world has developed the annoying habit of tilting just a couple of degrees off its axis if he moves his head.

He ducks his head just low enough that his long bangs and stupid-as-shit peaked cap will hide his face. Squeezes his eyes shut.

Al had been so worried, so frustrated, so scared this morning, when he'd stumbled into their drafty little dorm room well after the rest of the city had gone to sleep. The clumsy lies had burnt his lips when he'd spoken them—he'd been holed up in the Archives building at Headquarters, searching through mouldy reports and faded newspaper clips, lost track of time, really, Al, I'm sorry, didn't mean to worry you so much, it's no big deal—but no matter how Al had pressed, he hadn't been able to promise his little brother that it wouldn't happen again.

After all, he's pretty damn sure it will.

That thought drops into his stomach, stirs up the oily ones already there, whips them higher and higher until he feels sick. He swallows heavily, takes a steadying breath and lets it out through his mouth. He can't be sick here.

Besides, he never got a chance to have breakfast, so there's really nothing more than bile and black thoughts for him to battle, anyway, and he has lots of experience with that.

More applause, and he remembers to salute like a good dog this time, even if it's more to keep Mustang from elbowing him than it is to show respect for the retired general now making his way from the podium.

The Fuhrer takes his time replacing the man, offering the crowds friendly grins as he takes his place, and dolling out his thanks to their warm reception once he has the microphone in front of his face. Then the list of recipients of his gratitude starts to expand—to the State Alchemists standing behind him like living decorations, to all the hardworking men and women in the military for keeping the country safe, to those who'd spent months planning for this very day, to General Fuckface for being the one to organise this whole charade.

The other man beams at the praise like a dog that's been given a pat on the head, and Edward's stomach lurches at the disgusting, pathetic… _wrongness_ of it all, and the black thoughts slosh again, catch against the spark of injustice simmering in his chest. And just like that, the anger catches fire, flares along his veins and bones until even his fingers are hot and his skin prickles with the feeling of it, and black smoke fills his lungs until all he can do is breathe deeply, steadily, remind himself over and over and over that he's surrounded by a company of powerful alchemists and fuck knows how many security personnel hiding amongst the civilians' colourful dress, and that lunging forward to turn the man's face into ground meat is very much a Not Good Idea—

There's fire dancing behind his eyes now, too, leaving streaks of black soot in his vision, and he swallows around a mouth full of ash to keep a half-feral growl from bubbling up between his lips. His hands tighten into fists at his sides, and he can feel them trembling, and the anger _howls_ as the Fuhrer goes on, and he so fucking mad that he can't even see straight—

And that single realization dumps a truckload of water on the inferno in his body because his vision's seriously patchy now, so much so that he can barely focus on the knot of brown hair belonging to the alchemist directly in front of him. His stomach is still writhing, but now his ears are ringing, too, and loudly enough that he can barely make out whatever nationalistic bullshit Bradley's spouting off.

He blinks.

This… this isn't good.

Dimly, he's aware of the rise and fall of his chest, of the stiff uniform that moves with it. The world tilts alarmingly, and he isn't too proud to admit that he's glad when Mustang nudges him again. He clumsily brushes his automail fingers against his forehead, stumbles and turns to the right just a second after the older man does. The parade grounds sway around him, and he would swear that he's on a dinghy during a storm if he hadn't walked onto a stage some number of too-long minutes ago.

It turns out that he's the one swaying, though, and its sheer, dumb luck that has him catching himself at the last minute, and his numb hand reaches out on its own. Through his patchwork vision, he watches, almost detached, as Mustang tilts his head just enough to glance backward without appearing to do so.

"Something's not right," he mutters dully. Or at least he thinks he does, because his ears are still ringing and his lips feel numb and cold, and there's a hell of a lot that he's not feeling too sure about all of a sudden.

But the Colonel is already moving, shifting amongst the cruel, churning sea of blue wool until he's somehow at Edward's back and Edward is somehow in front of him, and the firm fingers digging into the crook of his armpit probably would have hurt if it wasn't all metal. Then a nudge against the ribs of his left side, and that does hurt, and he wonders if it's a moan or a curse that brushes past his lips. But he gets the message nonetheless and focuses on the shoulder blades in front of him, focuses on putting one unfeeling foot in front of the other, stumbles off of the risers, somehow manages to make it down the stairs and—

The pallid morning light filters in through oversized windows, and he squints, blinks a few times to protect his eyes from the sudden brightness. His brain feels like he'd lost in in a heavy fog for a week, and it's just as confused as he is as to how he ended up sprawled across the lumpy leather couch in his commanding officer's personal office.

He lifts a trembling hand, scrubs at his forehead and prods at his mind none too gently, but it just offers him a mental shrug and a whole bunch of white noise.

… the fuck?

Almost gingerly, he pushes himself up, just high enough that he can peer over the back of the couch. A heavy dress uniform—his own, he realizes a second later, smelling like machine oil and mothballs, a major's stars gleaming from the epaulets—pools into his lap and reveals the poorly fitting collared shirt Al'd threatened him with earlier that morning. He stares down at the blue wool, runs his fingers over it as though he can draw some answers out of it.

None are forthcoming.

He groans, hisses out a curse, buries his face into the couch's leather back.

How the hell had he gotten here? He remembers the parade grounds, the crowds, the glint of sunlight off his little brother's helm. Long-winded speeches and his own writhing stomach. Mustang nudging him, stumbling, squinting through the soot-streaks smeared across his vision…

Then here, three storeys and four hallways away from where he'd started.

"—to make some sort of excuse for his absence, so I can't remain here much longer." His ears perk up, and he lifts his head again. That's Mustang's cool voice filtering in, and if he sits just a bit taller, he can catch of glimpse of the man through the open office doorway. "If he doesn't wake soon, I'll leave it up to you to summon a medic."

Oh, hell no. The sudden jolt of indignation in his chest wars with something icy and sharp, but he doesn't take time to consider just what that second thing is; he's already bullying his torpid legs into obedience.

"I understand, Colonel." Armstrong's deep rumble answers. "Are you sure it's not better to summon one now? It seems quite unlike him to just lose consciousness like that, and he's never been terribly forthcoming about the trouble he attracts. It could be that he's suffering from some battle he hasn't shared with you."

He drags his feet off the couch, lets that stupid uniform jacket slither onto the floor. Any medic who tries to examine him, he decides viciously, will meet the business end of an automail fist. He's fucking _fine_.

His limbs are clumsy bastards, but they obey him nonetheless. Plus, the fog starts to lift from his brain once his blood starts pumping, and that's a relief that he just can't overlook. Maybe, if he just ignores Mustang and Armstrong, he can march right out of the main office, pretend nothing ever happened, collect Al, and bruise his ass on the first train to West City. Mustang and Armstrong can both learn to mind their own damn business that way, and he can avoid being paraded around like a show horse.

Everyone wins.

He only makes it about two steps toward the outer door before Armstrong's voice makes the air tremble. "Edward Elric! How good to see you on your feet again!"

A huge, meaty hand falls on Edward's metal shoulder, and _holy shitfuck_ —white-blue-green stars explode before his eyes—scarred flesh shrieks like a goddamn rat in a trap—his knees nearly buckle under the pain and the weight and—

And Armstrong, mustache quivering and eyes streaming, doesn't notice a damn thing. Not even when he growls and shoves the hand off of him, or half-steps, half-scrabbles away so the man can't make an encore.

"I dare say, Edward, you gave myself and the Colonel quite the scare!"

The Bastard arches an eyebrow but stays silent.

"You should feel grateful that your commanding officer was there to provide safety and discretion in your time of need. Now come, Edward, we shall find you a medic to discover the cause of your ill health and—"

"No, we won't." He probably shouldn't have snapped out the words, but it's too late now, and he really can't make himself give a damn, either.

He gives Armstrong a wide birth, sidesteps Mustang. The office's heavy oak door slams behind his heels.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).

Thanks a bunch to **Unluck Alis** and **Very Swampeh** for their beta help!

* * *

 **But Not Broken Yet**

 **Chapter Two**

* * *

If October's weather was wan and dull, then the weather in November is downright bleak. Swirling, grey clouds layer themselves over Central, and they carry with them the frigid air of the Drachman steppes. Heavy rains turn restaurant overhangs into water falls, drown boulevard gardens and barren plants, batter against street signs and sidewalks.

And after so many weeks, the moods of Central's citizens have started to wick up the damp, too.

Mustang sighs and watches as a single bead of rain slides down one of the oversized windows behind his desk. Beyond the panes of glass, a heavy wind snaps at the few barren bushes stamped around the edges of the parade grounds, and a couple of enlisted men dart from the western gate to the archive building, shoulders hunched, leather satchels over bowed heads.

That's one small blessing, at least. With Fullmetal and his brother half way across the country, the one can't rust and the other can't complain about the state of the weather.

Three sharp knocks cut through the silence of his office, dragging him from his foggy, half-formed thoughts so quickly he jolts. He turns away just in time to see Riza Hawkeye step into the room. As always, her blond hair is pinned back into a stern bun and her shoulders are squared beneath a first lieutenant's epaulets. The dull, grey light filtering into the room, though, makes even her skin seem worn out.

He offers her a tired, distracted smile. She offers him a short nod and a piercing gaze.

"I don't suppose you've managed to finish reviewing those requests yet, sir." It's not a question, but she hasn't started using that too-patient tone of hers, so he's willing to bet that he's safe for now.

"I can't say I have, Lieutenant, but I assure you that I'll have them dealt with before the end of the day." A gentle patter from the window at his back. "I apologize for taking so much time with them. I've just caught myself thinking…"

"A dangerous pastime, sir. Dare I ask what about?"

About the actions of their neighbours as a result of last month's unabashed display of propaganda, with Drachma's redoubling of border security and Creta's sudden interest in trade negotiations. About the Amestrian military's grandiose letters of welcome to the hypothetical Cretan delegation, even while training regimens and physical testing increase. About the legions of personnel being reviewed by critical eyes, and intelligence networks scrutinized and tightened to sniff out moles and unearth unsanctioned operations. About the flurry of reports passing across his desk, demanding hours of time he just doesn't have, leaving him working until after the rest of the city has finished the evening meal.

And always, at the back of his mind, a reluctant note of… not concern, but disquiet, because Fullmetal might be a decidedly frustrating little bastard, but Mustang has hardly heard a single thing about either brother since their sudden departure to Pendleton.

Instead of telling her any of this, though, he smears a salacious grin across his face. "Of my date tonight, of course. I intend to take Vanessa to the theatre—the playhouse is showing a historical drama right now that I think she'll find particularly enjoyable. I don't suppose you have any suggestions as to where we might go for supper afterward?"

His voice is just loud enough that it reverberates off the walls and slides beneath his closed office door. From the other side, he hears Havoc's "oh, come on!" and Breda's laughter, and gives himself a mental pat on the back.

Hawkeye, meanwhile, sighs. "If I'm not mistaken, sir, the Villandry will be nearby. Perhaps she would appreciate the fare they offer." A quick salute. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to collect my winnings. Please make sure the requests are completed and signed before you leave for the day."

* * *

It's well past a decent hour when he twists the steering wheel and guides his dirt-splattered automobile to the edge of the road. Just past the sidewalk, there's a quaint brick building, all dark but for one or two yellow windows, and it squats amongst empty flowerbeds and impishly circuitous walkways. The apartment Vanessa calls home is almost hilariously at odds with what she does for a living, and he's told her this more times that either one of them can count.

"Remind me," he says, partially because too-many-times-plus-one has a nice ring to it, and partially because he knows full well there's a law of nature that gives him permission to rib on his sisters. "How many of your neighbours are homemakers?"

Faint lamplight filters in through the vehicle's windows, and her normally auburn hair burns a fiery red. When she sighs and shakes her head, the flames dance and play in the glow. "I don't know, Roy Boy," she says. "Why don't I invite you inside and you can conduct a survey?"

His grin isn't at all innocent. "Ah, yes. That would appear quite innocuous. The man who your neighbours all believe you have a more-than-cordial relationship with, knocking on doors at—" he checks "—nearly eleven o'clock at night, determining how many women will be home while their husbands are at work. Very inconspicuous. I'm sure the Madame would be quite impressed."

Vanessa snorts her laughter. Mustang wonders for a moment when these types of conversations became a normal part of his life.

"Then the very least you can do, oh honourable _Colonel_ Mustang," she says, and tosses out the title like it's some cosmic joke, "is walk a lady to her door and wish her a good night. Unless you'd like me to tell your mother that you've forgotten the lessons she taught you as a child?"

"Blackmail will get you nowhere, Vanessa."

She raises an eyebrow.

He steps out of the vehicle, circles around, opens her door for her. The exaggerated care he gives to the task is subtle—just an exaggerated bow and an overextension of his offered arm—but the bland look she shoots his way assures him that she's noticed anyway.

He adds a point to the mental tally. She takes it away just as quickly when she digs her long nails into the crook of his elbow.

They exchange pleasantries at the doorway, saccharine and flowery so they can laugh about it later when her neighbours start warning her about Colonel Mustang, the Great Philanderer. Then slightly too-loud plans for a second date are tossed into the air, and he's finally making his way down the meandering pathway, sliding back into his vehicle's bench seat.

A thick little envelope, rumpled from its time spent in his foster sister's coat pocket, rests atop the black leather. On the front, a cryptic note stares back at him:

 _If you keep your head down, you'll be damn near invisible to the crowds._

The cautious swell of good humour in his chest pops so suddenly that he swears he can hear it. A sigh, a frown, and he eases the vehicle back onto the road.

Never before has his mother had any sort of problem keeping tabs on those two boys. What's so secret that they've had to all but erase themselves from the rest of the world?

* * *

Mustang closes his eyes on the last bleak night in November, falls asleep to the low moan of the wind and the steady onslaught of rain against his bedroom window. When he awakes again, December has brought with it a blanket of dense white snow and frozen crystal drops that hang from barren tree branches and lonely eaves troughs. The world brightens, though the ever-present scientist at the back of his mind prattles on about the reflective properties of water for the entire car ride to Central Headquarters, and when Havoc parks the vehicle near the southern gate, the full force of the frigid wind smacks him squarely in the face.

"You okay there, Boss?" Havoc asks from his place in the driver's seat. But the taller man doesn't sound concerned at all, and he's grinning around the unlit fag between his lips, and Mustang knows that Havoc knows that he _hates_ the cold.

"Just considering the amount of paperwork necessary if you were ever demoted, Second Lieutenant."

Havoc, for his part, just laughs. "Too much, sir," he says. "Besides, just think of it as a warm up for when Ed and Al finally show up again."

Warm up. Ha. The man must think he's an absolute riot.

"I appreciate your attempts to ensure that I'm adequately prepared for Fullmetal's eventual arrival," Mustang says, though his voice is drier than the eastern deserts—which, he'll add, aren't being plagued with these gelid temperatures. "Would you like me to return the favour and light that cigarette for you? I'll warn you now, though, that my fingers are quite cold, so my aim might be less than ideal."

Havoc pulls the cigarette in question from between his lips and quickly tosses it onto the car's dash. "Point taken, Colonel. Now can you please hurry up and head into HQ? You're letting the cold air in."

In response, he fixes Havoc with a withering glare and slams the car door shut. The tails of his black overcoat snap around him as he turns on his heel, and the snow crunches underfoot as he passes through the south gate—quickly, so that his second lieutenant can't see the roll of his eyes and the amused shake of his head.

Headquarters itself is a flurry of movement; the arrangement to have a delegation of Cretans come to Central for trade negotiations has fallen through spectacularly, and the Drachmans are making disgruntled noises from their ice-lined caves, leaving the Amestrian higher-ups scrabbling to increase protection along the borders even while they assure the general population that their rivals to the north and west are just posturing.

Of course, Mustang has had nearly a week with the envelope from Vanessa, reading between the lines of foreign newspaper clippings and stolen letters rumouring this very thing, so he's not the least bit surprised by the urgent memo waiting from him as he shucks off his greatcoat and settles in behind his desk. Even if he hadn't had the forewarning though, he _does_ have a useable set of eyes and more than two brain cells to rub together, and it becomes increasingly clear as the day goes on that the higher-ups must have done something to incite this development, even if he can't quite determine what.

He transfers a handful of active-duty State Alchemists to West City and North City, respectively, and the men and women pack their bags and head to their new postings as the days shorten and the snowbanks grow taller.

A fortnight later, Vanessa accompanies him to the military's annual midwinter gala. They smile together when an overzealous photographer asks them to pose for the camera, and keep those smiles plastered across their faces throughout the night while they laugh at the jokes of pompous generals and flatter their graceless wives. On the overall, though, even Mustang can't deny that the evening turns out to be fairly productive. If nothing else, he and Vanessa manage to cobble together a surprisingly whole picture of the whole scenario from rosy-cheeked general and their twittering wives.

Admittedly, it doesn't hurt that Havoc spends half the night sighing heavily until a pretty captain from the typing pool takes pity on him, or that Hawkeye ends up pocketing just over five thousand cenz thanks to the ongoing office pool, either.

The residual good mood lasts for three days, when a joint operation between Intelligence and Investigations unearth a Drachman information-trawling network. Officers squeeze the terrified men until they sing like off-tune opera sopranos, then raid two more warehouses the following night. Mustang cancels the date he was supposed to mimic with his foster sister as soon as the news comes across his desk.

Better safe than sorry, after all. Especially in instances like this.

A short, terse phone call from Fullmetal—barely more than "me'n'Al have been busy, so don't expect us back any time soon"—reaches Lieutenant Hawkeye just before the new year. Havoc starts a betting pool as to how many buildings the little hellraiser will demolish before he sets foot in Central; Mustang doesn't even hesitate before laying money down on five.

Breda and Havoc laugh, but if he's learned anything, it's that Fullmetal doesn't do _anything_ in spares.

By mid-January, Fox calls upon the three-fifty-fourth brigade to submit themselves to a series of performance evaluations. The enlisted men are first, and it takes three days for all of them to be tested. Nearly seven percent of Mustang's lowest subordinates are sent for remedial training, and Mustang swallows his rage and indignation as he thanks Fox for his diligence.

They may not be Special Ops, he thinks dourly as he pours himself a drink later that night and sinks into the most comfortable chair in his living room, but there's no way so many of his man can't pass basic personnel evaluations.

By the time he's finished scrutinizing the final report the following morning, his position has only strengthened. He avoids speaking to the others for the rest of the day for fear that the fire crackling in his chest will burn them.

Fuery is the first of his senior staff to have to present himself to Fox's panel of examiners, and Mustang feels a pang in his stomach when he realizes that he's surprised by the results: the unassuming sergeant master passes with flying colours. Then it's Falman's turn to prove his skills with weapons, with hand-to-hand, with logistics and surveillance, with military etiquette and tactics. Breda, Havoc, and Hawkeye each answer their own summons over the course of an afternoon.

In the end, though, Mustang's senior staff are spared any serious repercussions. While Breda's is told to spend more time honing his hand-to-hand skills and Falman's marksmanship is considered lacking, no one is ordered to present themselves to the drill sergeants for additional training, so Mustang counts that as a win.

By the time Mustang's own evaluation takes place and his mediocre skills with a pistol are discovered, a simple strategy has already pieced itself together in his mind; he offers the evaluator his best I'm-talking-to-idiots smile and blandly mentions that fire is a far more effective weapon for him to wield than a firearm. To his credit, the evaluator gives him a thoughtful look before jotting a few words into a notebook.

Mustang counts that as a win, too, and congratulates himself for it that night with a glass of bourbon.

The next morning, however, he's quickly reminded that while he's won the battle, the war is still raging. As he makes his way through Central Headquarters' halls, a voice, reedy and arrogant and male, wraps around the half-opened doors to his office and slides out to meet him. His mind shoves a name at him as though it were holding something old and dripping.

General Fox.

"—unacceptable for a commanding officer not to be present when a direct subordinate is already beginning her work day." Fox's voice heats the air with its vitriol. "And the lack of proper protocol taking place in this office is completely and utterly shameful."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir." Hawkeye's dry voice makes it clear she's anything but. "However, if I'm not mistaken, my working hours are at the discretion of my commanding officer. I'll be sure to have Warrant Officer Falman check that the particular arrangement I have with the Colonel is within standard military procedures, though, to be sure. As for the lack of protocol, if you would be so kind as to let me know which ones you're referring to, I would be happy to ensure our lapse is corrected."

Fox splutters out a few incoherent sounds, and Mustang has to wipe a savage grin off his face before he enters the room. It really won't do to leave the Lieutenant alone with that self-important louse any longer.

Considering it's just before seven o'clock in the morning and that Mustang himself has come in early to get a head start on the mountain of paperwork threatening to slide off his desk, it's really no surprise that Hawkeye is the only member of his team currently present. Her face is stone and her posture is perfect, but he can, if he looks closely enough, see the tension cording the muscles of her neck.

He catches her eye, and her gaze flickers with something that looks suspiciously like relief as she snaps her heels together and touches her fingers to her brow. "Good morning, sir. I wasn't expecting to see you for another hour or so."

"Good morning, Lieutenant. General." He offers the man a salute of his own, and releases it without permission. Let Fox complain about _that_ if he's so worried about protocol. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I was commenting to your lieutenant that this office displays a thoroughly shameful lack of military protocol," Fox says. His lip curls, and he's not even trying to hide his disdain. "I think it's fairly clear by now from where your subordinates have learned their behaviour."

"That's unfortunate to hear, sir," Mustang says. In his mind's eye, his gloves are on and he's already burned a bald spot in the man's thinning hair. "I have to say that things here are run very differently than they were at Eastern Headquarters, but I'll be sure to redouble my efforts to learn the intricacies of Central as soon as I'm able. I wouldn't want my subordinates to get the wrong impression, after all."

From her place beside her desk, Hawkeye eyes him. Does she—?

Yes, she absolutely does realize he's mocking the older man.

"Save your excuses for someone who'll accept them, Mustang." Fox shoves a thick folder in his direction. Even from where he stands, he can see the pages peering out from between its heavy leaves—the complete personnel reviews he'd signed off yesterday. "Lax protocol is bad enough, but omitting important documentation is another matter altogether. Or is it that this just another situation that is handled differently at Eastern Headquarters?"

What is that arrogant puttock talking about? Mustang doesn't need to work to paste some vaguely confused expression across his face—it comes completely naturally. "Forgive me, General, but would you mind elaborating on—"

His fingers flip through the folder on their own, and his stomach drops about two inches when his eyes fall upon the top page. A personnel evaluation sheet boasts Fullmetal's full name and alias, birthdate, rank, service number. Everything else is still blank.

"Every active-duty soldier reporting to Central Headquarters is expected to undergo a skills review, Colonel." Considering the way his words sizzle in the air, Fox may as well be spitting acid into the room. "The paperwork you signed states that this very thing has taken place for each and every soldier under your command. Did you perhaps forget that the Fullmetal Alchemist reports to you?"

Mustang stares hard at the paperwork in his hands. He could insist that Fullmetal is in some backwater village and can't currently be contacted, mutter something about missions and dangerous alchemists if the stupid old fool presses the matter. Could explain that the rules don't apply to the little bastard—never had, never will—and that getting Fullmetal to submit to something so menial would only result in brash laughter and the creation of a few new expletives. Could—

Fox is waiting for an answer. Mustang raises his chin and meets the other man's predatory gaze. "Of course not, sir. However, State Alchemists historically haven't had to submit to such reviews. Their recertification assessments have always been considered adequate, so I assumed—"

"You assumed wrong. Call your dog in, Mustang. Have him take the tests and submit the completed report by the beginning of next week. I trust I make myself clear."

Chest puffed out like a horse with a respiratory disease, Fox marches across the office. He pauses at the door, glances over the stars and bars on his shoulder, and Mustang has just enough time to think that he looks like a villain in a cheesy novel before the man opens his mouth again.

"Bear in mind, Colonel, that if I notice any more of these discrepancies, I'll make a point to speak to General Hakuro about them myself. I can assure you that there will be consequences."

The silver hem of Fox's cavalry skirt flares wide, and he finally makes his leave.

For a few beats of his frantic heart, neither he nor Hawkeye move. But then the woman finally crosses the office, eases the door shut, lets her shoulders slump ever so slightly. "With your permission, sir," she says. "I'll mention him the next time Lieutenant Havoc makes a complaint about your own theatrical displays."

"I think, Lieutenant, that you can take several other steps before you go to such extremes," he says. "During his last check-in, did Fullmetal give you any indication as to where he was?"

"No, sir."

Of course he hadn't. A litany of height-related insults flash across Mustang's mind, each more vicious than the last. Unlike Fullmetal, however, he knows how to keep his thoughts to himself, so only a sigh passes between his lips. "Very well. When Fuery gets in, then, have him help you track down Fullmetal's current location. Pendleton and the surrounding areas should be a good place to start."

Once Hawkeye has acknowledged his orders with a quick nod and a sharp "of course, sir," he excuses himself and retreats into the quiet of his personal office. The wooden chair behind his desk creaks as he all but collapses into it, and he takes a moment to watch the streaks and stars wink about his vision as he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

What a way to start the morning.

* * *

It takes Hawkeye and Fuery two days, plus overtime and some decidedly questionable tactics, to track the Elric brothers' movement north from Pendleton, then west again to some mining community dangerously close to the Cretan border, then east and south to Worsley, a little boomtown with the distinction of being possibly the least interesting place Mustang has ever had the misfortune of hearing about. Fuery mentions something about fertile soil and plenty of land for farming ("Maybe it's not so much the place as it is the raw materials?"), and Hawkeye mentions that her contact—some corporal stationed in the town's little outpost—spoke about an agricultural alchemist who helps out his neighbours during the growing season.

Mustang, for his part, just nods his head like he understands perfectly before dismissing the two.

Fuery salutes and wishes him a good night. Hawkeye, however, pierces him with that sharp gaze of hers and waits for the office door to close before speaking.

"You have that look on your face, sir," she tells him.

He holds back a sigh. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"And I'm afraid that I've known you long enough to be able to tell when you're lying to me," she counters. Then her eyes soften. "You're concerned about those two boys."

He blinks, stares at her for a fraction of a second. Concerned? About Fullmetal? The little hellion might be a nightmare to handle, but he's as resourceful as any other soldier Mustang knows, and twice as intelligent. Even looking past the seven-foot-tall suit of armour holding his brother's soul, Fullmetal is near the bottom of the list of people Mustang needs to be concerned about.

With that decided, he arches a sceptical eyebrow in his lieutenant's direction. "Hardly."

Hawkeye watches him steadily. The wall clock over the door ticks away.

"Honestly, Lieutenant. Fullmetal and his brother are capable alchemists, and even I am willing to admit that Fullmetal has a peculiar talent for getting himself out of tight situations. There are other people—and other situations—far more needing of my concern."

The wall clock continues to tick a steady rhythm. Mustang tries not to fidget in his chair, and laces his fingers together so that he won't end up playing idly with his pen. This is getting absurd—he's her commanding officer, not some green recruit who's been caught pilfering the alcohol stores.

"Is there something else you wanted to share with me?"

The wall clock sounds out twice more before she answers. "No, sir. I apologize. I was simply wondering why Edward and Alphonse would decide to hide themselves from the world like they have been. It's very uncharacteristic of them."

And isn't that the crux of the matter? Considering the difficulties posed in hiding when one is the nation's youngest state alchemist or a bodiless soul, the effort that those two are demonstrating is nothing short of commendable—though he'd never say it out loud.

He unlaces his fingers, scrubs at his face. "All things considered," he finally says, "there's really no point in ruminating over the matter until we hear from Fullmetal or Alphonse. Call the hotel in Worsley, please, and make it clear to Fullmetal that he is to present himself at Central Headquarters no later than Monday at noon."

Three days. More than enough time. So long as they get their asses in gear—and he trusts Alphonse to do so, even if he doesn't expect the same of Fullmetal—then the brothers should be able to make the appropriate train connections and…

"You wouldn't prefer to give him the order yourself, sir?"

He shakes his head. "You know as well as I do that, if I try to order Fullmetal to do something, he's liable to drag his feet just to spite me."

"Fair enough, sir." There's a resigned tone to her voice that's almost-not-quite-just-a-little funny—a touch of normalcy amidst a decidedly trying week—and he finds a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Once you've spoken to him, please do leave and enjoy your weekend. I'll lock everything up here when I've finished."

Mustang spends much of his weekend doing what any sane-but-overworked adult should be doing: relaxing.

Long hours are spent with a glass of whiskey in one hand and some theory about the movement of superheated, gaseous particles in the other. On Saturday, he invites his team out to a local bar—if it's the Madame's bar, that's simply coincidence—and pats Havoc on the shoulder in false sympathy when all the pretty waitresses laugh and kindly rebuff the taller man's advances. Sometime after their third round, Mustang catches Hawkeye's eye. She sighs. He grins. The next server to stop by their boisterous table, after a few suave words that both she and he know are in jest, giggles and writes down a phone number.

Havoc lets out an odd noise between a choke and a wail while Hawkeye collects money from the others.

All in all, it's a fairly good weekend, so Mustang feels more than ready to slip into his armour, draw his visor and ventail across his face, and settle into the wooden chair behind his desk. After all, Fullmetal is due to present himself to his commanding officer in just a few short hours, and forcing the tempestuous brat to do anything he doesn't want to do can be likened to grabbing a half-starved wolf by the tail.

The noon hour comes, and Hawkeye offers to buy him lunch from the café a few blocks away. When he thanks her for her kindness, she blandly replies that the money for both their lunches is coming from his half of Saturday's winnings before disappearing out the office door.

The sandwich she picks out for him is still delicious.

By the time one o'clock rolls around, however, his good mood has started to fade, and the first real thorns of frustration are starting to prick at the underside of his ribs. He has Falman procure a copy of the passenger manifest for the overnight train from South City to Central, confirms that two tickets were purchase for passengers with the surname "Elric," and turns the entire document to ash with a snap of his fingers.

He stares at the blackened remains in his trash bin. That little _shit_.

It's nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when Fox invites himself into the office, and they all scrabble to their feet to offer the man slightly-less-than-perfect salutes from around piles of paperwork and overflowing trash bins. Being the arrogant toerag that he is, the older man tosses finely sharpened critiques about the room until Mustang, voice smooth like oil, thanks the general for his expertise in protocol and etiquette, and asks if there's any particular reason for his presence.

Fox blusters out something about ensuring Fullmetal's evaluation will be done on time. Mustang swallows back a snarl about how Fullmetal is a rebellious little bastard who can't _grow up_ for the five seconds it would take to actually listen to an order for once in his life, then smiles blandly. A few words to explain that the young alchemist has just arrived in Central and will be undertaking his review shortly, a sneer from Fox, then the older man is striding back out of the office.

Havoc's not as subtle as he thinks he is when he wipes at an eye with a very specific finger, but Fox doesn't notice, so Mustang decides that maybe he doesn't notice, either.

He does, however, make sure to carefully ease his office door shut before allowing his blackened, burnt mask to fall away from his face. After all, it wouldn't do for his subordinates to catch sight of the frustration smouldering beneath his ribs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).

 **Author's Note:** This hasn't been beta'ed, so I apologise in advance.

* * *

 **But Not Broken Yet**

 **Chapter Three**

* * *

Overnight, a blizzard raps against the panes of his bedroom window and dumps thick silver flakes on the sills. Winds howl, loudly enough at first to keep him tossing and turning and tangling his legs in the thick down comforter draped over his bed, but then the snow must deepen enough to muffle the noise—or else exhaustion from the previous day has leeched more energy from him than he's originally thought—because he drifts away with the snow and dreams of nothing at all.

Of course, when he opens his eyes in the morning and reminds himself that clumsily shoving his alarm clock off his bedside table is both childish and useless, the soft, muted muffle of snow is still there, and it carries with it the full realization of just what the additional foot of frozen misery will mean for his morning commute. Face still half-buried in a pillow, he offers a single-eyed glare at the frost curling over the window panes.

In the end, though, he has to concede defeat. A handful of choice words, offered without any real heat, waver into the air of his tidy little bedroom. If he's quick, he can get to the shower without losing too much warmth, and the steamy water will tide him over until he can drag his thick wool uniform over his shoulders and scald his tongue on some coffee.

Still, there's the issue of half the city being shut down thanks to the snow covering awnings and street corners alike, which is only compounded by the fact that Havoc doesn't understand the concept of driving like a sane human being when the roads are in such a condition.

Because he's not too proud to admit that he rather likes not being wrapped around some ice-covered lamppost, thank you very much, he drops his bare feet onto the cold wood floor, hisses, and passes the bathroom on his way to the phone.

The ensuing conversation is short: yes, he's certain he can drive himself to Headquarters this morning; no, he's not going to get to the office late because he drives like a nearsighted octogenarian; yes, he's absolutely going to cut Havoc's pay if the man keeps talking like that. Then he's showering, shaving, and fumbling with a piece of toast while he hunts for his keys.

The normally short commute to Central Headquarters takes three quarters of an hour, all thanks to the aforementioned closed roads and a handful of accidents that he will absolutely blame on Havoc just because he can. Still, he's both capable of planning ahead and smart enough to foresee the problem, and he tromps into the office both on time and just in time for the phone on Hawkeye's desk to shatter the early morning silence.

"Colonel Mustang's office—ah, yes, good morning to you, too—I'm doing well, thank you—yes, Hayate is enjoying the snow. If you plan on staying here for any length of time, you could throw some snowballs for him if you'd like—not at all. You'd be doing me just as much of a favour—ah, of course. He's right beside me." Without warning, she holds out the receiver.

Like an idiot, he blinks down at it. His brain, still cluttered with calculations about safe driving speeds and the frictional coefficients of ice, skids to a halt. Wasn't she just talking about the dog?

"It's Alphonse, sir. He'd like to speak with you for a moment."

That… that makes more sense.

He accepts the receiver.

"Good morning, Alphonse," he says. Hell, he even sounds distracted. He tries to prod his brain back into gear.

"Good morning, Colonel!" Alphonse, meanwhile, sounds almost disgustingly alert. "Could I, ah, have a moment of your time?"

"I daresay you can." Mustang's mouth releases the words before he gives it permission. "What is it that I can help you with, Alphonse?"

The sounds of shuffling hiss above the white noise in the receiver, and then he hears faint ring of metal on metal. Mustang has just enough time to realize that the younger Elric is fidgeting like a nervous cadet before that familiar, metal-tinged voice echoes down the phone lines again.

"You haven't, you know, talk to Ed lately, have you? I know he doesn't like calling people or anything, but I was hoping that, maybe, he'd at least checked in or something…?"

There's optimism, there are dreams, and then there's the synergistic combination of the two.

"Alphonse, the last time I personally heard your brother speak was when he brushed off Major Armstrong before you both headed to Pendleton. He hasn't even bothered to check in in nearly a month."

A heavy sigh. "Oh, okay. Damnit." Mustang has just enough time to blink his surprise before Alphonse goes on. "I'm really sorry about yesterday, Colonel. I tried to convince him to report in like you told him to, and he kept telling me that he'd go, but then he just… I went out to grab some food, and when I came back he wasn't here, so I thought he'd gone, but his mission report's still on the coffee table, so I guess he didn't go after all. I'll make sure he goes to your office today, though. Promise."

Alphonse's anxious energy crackles through the phone line, bellied by the faint clank of fidgeting armour and the quick tumble of his words. It's a disease, and it worries into Mustang's ear, smears itself across his brain, and pools in his gut like old oil. His hand tightens ever so slightly on the receiver.

Still, he's not the young man's guardian—technically, he doesn't have any obligations to him at all—and he's familiar with the dangers of sticking his nose into Elric-related affairs. Besides, he reminds himself, it's not like those two need his concern. They're both capable, intelligent alchemists, after all.

"I would appreciate that," he tells the phone. "Now, if there's nothing else, I have certain matters to attend to."

A sigh and two heartbeats before Alphonse responds. "N-no, Colonel. There's nothing else."

"Have a good day, then."

"You, too, Colonel. Thank you."

Suddenly, impossibly, the receiver feels too heavy to bear. He drops it onto its cradle, ignores Hawkeye's questioning glance, and tugs sharply at the silver hem of his uniform as he makes his way into his personal office.

Still, he can't quite banish the slick of something suspiciously like trepidation that's sloshing about the base of his skull.

* * *

With the snow weighing down on the city and all but stopping regular goings-on, the work that would normally fly through Central Headquarters' hallways instead moves to a crawl. In Mustang's office, not even Hawkeye can convince the men to be truly productive when there's so little to be done.

It's not even eleven o'clock before Havoc starts dropping jokes like stale bread, and each and every one of them point out the number of accidents on the roadways and the fact that Mustang decided to drive his own vehicle into work. Mustang pays no mind to the not-so-subtle jabs. Instead, he wonders if Fullmetal will show up while the tall second lieutenant is going on, and is startled to realize that the idea doesn't fill him with dread.

By one o'clock, Mustang is more focused on the goings on outside his office window than he is on the forms spread across his desk. Beyond the frosted windows, maintenance crews clear out a path between the main building and the western gate for the third time, stopping occasionally to brush off their shoulders and shake off their wool caps.

Perhaps it would be best if he called the barracks and told Fullmetal not to show up after all. The weather is nothing if not relentless, and Mustang is willing to bet that the crews around the barracks are having an even harder time keeping their designated pathways clear. Mustang may be a lot of things, but he's not completely heartless, and he knows full well how miserable it can be to try to travel in such gelid temperatures.

Besides, he adds as an afterthought, if nothing else, the brat will be a most spectacular pain in the ass if his automail is bothering him.

Outside, the maintenance crew finishes up and throws down coarse salt before the snow can completely undo their work. Alphonse's voice, and the sharp note of anxiety laced within it, echoes in his ear. He drags his eyes from the frost-lined windows, gives his head a shake to clear those words away.

His eyes drift over to the telephone crouched so calmly on his desk, and his fingers flex, but his hand doesn't move.

Really, though, the brat's already walking a fine line between teenaged rebellion and unacceptably insubordinate. Letting the orders stand and having Fullmetal report in despite the snow and freezing weather might teach him a lesson. Perhaps. Hopefully.

And that's assuming that the mercurial young man wouldn't hold it over his commanding officer's head whenever he felt like dragging his feet about something.

No, Mustang finally decides, "give him and inch and he'll take a mile" is a saying that was written specifically with Fullmetal in mind, and he has no intention of being taken advantage of by some stubborn kid almost half his age. Fullmetal can brave the wet snow and freezing weather like the rest of them.

After all, if he hadn't wanted to do so, then he should have showed up when he'd first been ordered to.

He nods once, sharply, and picks up his pen. He tries to ignore the icy tendrils reaching out from the window at his back, but they pluck at the stars on his epaulets and burrow into his ribs anyway. He buries his head in whatever paltry scraps of work are scattered across his desk, and ignores the clock above his door as it ticks its steady rhythm. Works through his late lunch, nearly misses a two o'clock meeting with General Hakuro, and absolutely does _not_ glance at it with thick nettles twined around his ribs as the wan, hazy light from outside starts to bleed away.

Fortunrely, even with the door to his inner sanctum closed, Mustang knows the exact moment Fullmetal tromps into the main office—it's no doubt the very same moment when Breda's voice and Havoc's laughter slip beneath the heavy oak door, bellied by Fuery's joyous greeting and a handful of indistinct words from Hawkeye.

Of course, it also has to be just thirty minutes before the workday is due to end.

Maybe he should have just told the young man to come in tomorrow, after all.

The heavy, oily smear from that morning bubbles and froths at the back of his mind. Frustration, surely, from all the bullshit that the brat has put him through—his childish behaviour at the ceremony all those months ago, his sudden disappearing act for all those long weeks, and now, with this absurd reluctance to even step foot in Central Headquarters.

Mustang takes a deep inhale and fixes his gaze on the wall clock above his door. He watches the second hand twitch five times before blowing the air out through his lips, and focuses on clearing that old, black oil from his mind.

Fullmetal's voice, low and terse, wheedles its way under the door. The jovial voices and good-natured laughter fall away, and the slick of oil spumes, splattering across the underside of his skull.

He dashes his signature across some dry report, shoves it aside, unearths a thin folder containing the few scraps of information he's collected about the Elrics' latest escapade. His eyes quickly scan the sheets one last time, but there's nothing he doesn't already know—train ride to Pendleton, some aimless wandering across the country's south-western areas, brief check-in in December. Takes another steadying breath, because there's no way that it's anything other than frustration that's making it so hard for him to focus on the brief mental agenda he's set out—reprimand Fullmetal for being out of tough for so long, engage in some (hopefully) verbal sparring, debrief the kid, order him to be evaluated, get verbally assaulted. Then pack up and go home.

Just a regular end to the work day.

He smears a smirk across his lips like war paint, gathers short jokes and sarcastic remarks around him like a shield.

The plain oak door eases open. Fullmetal slips through, eases it shut. The click of the lock snaps through the cool air of his office—a loaded pistol being cocked. Footfalls thrum loudly in the room, bouncing off the wood floor and whitewashed walls alike, and a sick sort of swell balloons in Mustang's stomach as his eyes flick over the blond alchemist.

For the breath of on too-long second, he simply stares.

Somewhere, at the back of his mind, a voice whispers tells him that he was seven kinds of idiot for fooling himself.

The rest of Mustang's thoughts, though, are focused oh-so-sharply on a thousand more important details: the way that too-big winter coat hangs haphazardly from that lithe body, the bunched muscles of Fullmetal's jaw, the firm press of those bitten lips, the cording of his neck, the sharp angles of his shoulders. His head hangs just low enough that thick golden bangs, damp and dark from the snow, cast heavy shadows over his face. His brows—or at least what Mustang can see of them—are furrowed. His hands are shaking at his sides.

But it's Fullmetal's normally molten gaze, now hard as ice and tight with something thick and dark and poisonous, that really gives him pause.

Fullmetal has wrapped himself up in so much willpower and pigheadedness that Mustang, if he's being honest with himself, is almost afraid to consider just what will happen if those thousands of fine cords start to snap.

The war paint smirk is wiped from his lips, and his shield of rude remarks crumbles away. For the span of a heartbeat, all he can do is gape and listen to the faint whisper at the back of his mind.

Something is very, _very_ wrong.

He… has a role to play, though, and he's not the kid's mother. If he shows any atypical behaviour, he has absolutely no doubt that this half-feral animal wearing Fullmetal's skin will attack, all razor teeth and wicked claws and bruising blows, so he hides his ruined war paint behind steepled fingers and drags a whetstone across his tongue.

"As gracious as it may be for you to bestow your presence upon us, Fullmetal," he finally says, "do keep in mind that when your commanding officer tells you to report in promptly, it's not a suggestion."

Those mismatched hands tighten into trembling fists. Fullmetal's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, but he doesn't say a damned thing.

Mustang gathers himself, tries again. "Would you care to elaborate on what was just so important that you couldn't follow orders? Again?"

Even from behind his desk, he can hear Fullmetal draw a ragged breath of air through his teeth. Golden eyes have dropped, and are firmly fixed on those scuffed leather boots now. Fullmetal's dug in his heel enough times for Mustang to know the signs, and the old oil in his mind floods his thoughts even as a handful of curses flash forward.

Damnit, there's no he's he going to be able to get the little hellion to talk if—

"I need to talk to you about something." The words, low and hoarse, tumble forward as though Fullmetal's trying to say them before he can think better of it.

Mustang blinks his surprise, and his lungs loosen in something like relief. But his tongue, already sharpened and ready for battle, reacts before he can call off the attack. "And, clearly, avoiding the office is the most efficient way to accomplish that."

"Fuck you, Mustang. I—" Fullmetal's eyes dart toward the door, his fingers flex a few more times, and his throat bobs again. Another sharp drag of air. "I'm serious, asshole."

And that in and of itself is probably the most terrifying thing Mustang's heard today. "Clearly," he says, and nods toward the empty chair crouched before his desk. "Then sit down and tell me—"

"Not here!" Fullmetal lurches, and Mustang is so sure that the wild animal inside is going to attack that he flinches away in spite of himself. But the kid just twists to glance back at the office door, fidgets, finally settles himself again. "Shit—can't just fuckin'—"

"Considering my team is on the other side of that office door, Fullmetal, I think it's clear that you don't have to worry about eaves—"

"I said. Not. _Here_." Finally, Fullmetal's eyes meet his, half-terrified and half-crazed with whatever the hell he's not saying. There's no denying the rough, unyielding weight in his voice, either, and Mustang realizes that he really only has a handful of options.

He can either play along and figure out whatever the hell is going on, or he can dig in his heels, pull rank, and fruitlessly order the young man to talk.

And not learn a damn thing at the end of it.

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't follow along. He's a ranking officer with deadlines and duties and he can't just bow to the whims of an emotionally driven teenager. He should order Fullmetal pull himself together, do the damned evaluation that Fox wants, and learn to at least pretend to respect authority.

But Alphonse was concerned enough to call him of all people and ask about his brother's wellbeing, and Hawkeye's been making not-so-subtle comments for well over a month now, and even he can no longer deny that that something dark and oily and Elric-shaped has been sloshing about the back of his mind for even longer than that.

An idea—equal part ludicrous and necessary—dashes before his eyes. The breath that passes from between his lips is most definitely _not_ a defeated sigh.

His chair creaks, sounding too loud and too flat in the tense silence of the room, but then his feet take his weight, and he slips his great coat over his shoulders. One hand fastens the buttons while the other tucks a few folders under an elbow—he really does have to get them done—and then his boots beat a tempo into the hardwood.

"Alright then. If this isn't somewhere we can converse, I can think of one other place that'll be safe. I expect, though, that you will tell me just what the hell is going on when we get there."

A burst of air from Fullmetal—had he been holding his breath?—and Mustang decides to take the grunt as one of acquiescence. The young man falls into step behind him, ignores the calls and greetings from the others when they step out of his personal office. Mustang tosses a few sharp orders into the air, though he can't quite recall just what they are, and mutters some dry acknowledgement to Hawkeye that, yes, he's leaving early and, yes, the paperwork will be on her desk at the beginning of tomorrow's workday.

Fullmetal is far quieter than he has any right to be as he trails after his commanding officer like the obedient dog he's never even tried to imitate, but Mustang, if he listens, can pick out the faint squeal of metal on metal and the whine of abused bearings. The blond alchemist still has his hands balled into fists, then, and tightly enough that his metal prosthetic is protesting.

"May I ask where Alphonse is right now?" A distraction, and a weak one at that, but anything would be better than this heavy, sick silence.

"Dorms."

"Oh? I find it surprising that he didn't want to see the team."

Mustang cuts right, pushes his way through a door, starts down a service stairwell. Hardly anyone comes this way, and instinct has been whispering at him that they don't want to be seen even if he can't quite figure out why.

"Told him to stay behind."

"Why?"

The scraping of a metal hand on a wooden handrail and the scuffle of boots sound at his back. When he glances over his shoulder, Fullmetal's glaring at him again "Fuckin' _told_ you already. Not here."

They burst through a door that leads directly out into the freezing, snow-laden parade grounds. Fullmetal mutters an oath but is otherwise silent as they duck under an awning, cut across the grounds, and make their way to the motor pool. He spots his own vehicle among the sea of shining metal bodies, drags his keys from a pocket. Fullmetal drags himself into the front seat.

The engine coughs and rumbles. A few carefully casual words to the soldiers at the motor pool's entry, then he's easing the vehicle out onto Central's snow-laden streets. Heavy flakes dance around them as he navigates the icy streets, but there aren't any pedestrians and barely any vehicles, so he doesn't have to focus so much that he can't speak.

"I don't imagine that we're isolated enough for you to finally share your secretive behaviour with me."

Fullmetal hunches his shoulders and stares at the dashboard like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

That's a no, then.

Mustang lets loose a deep, steadying breath.

The sound of slush hitting the car's undercarriage follows them past frosted storefronts and slickened cobblestone intersections. The street lights flicker on somewhere near Regent and Eighth Street, but the orange light and the steady slide of shadows only toy with Mustang's sight when he risks a glance in Fullmetal's direction. Those are bruises all over the young man's face, they must be, ugly and brown and spread across his eyes and cheeks and—

He's imagining things, surely. He shakes his head, takes a left a little too sharply. Fullmetal doesn't even seem to notice, lost as he is in whatever thoughts are swirling about his brain.

It's not until Mustang guides the vehicle to the side of the road and cuts the engine that the blond alchemist claws his way back to the real world. He blinks, casts a wary glance at their surroundings. "Where the hell are we?"

What happened to _not here_? Mustang wants to snap back. But now's not the time, not the place, to be so petty. The tension is thick and heavy in the air, and it's filling his lungs with smoke.

"Let's just get inside," he chokes out. He slides out of the car and starts up the walkway before Fullmetal can voice a complaint.

A long line of row homes loom before them, painted brick façades pale in the twilight and deep-set windows watching them with dark, suspicious eyes. Mustang tries not to bow his shoulders under the weight of their gaze as he stomps up the stairs to the nearest door, fights with the lock until it gives way, breathes his relief when he finally steps inside.

Mustang finds the light switch without sight, and knows without looking that those wolf eyes are dancing along the hallway, taking in the worn oak archways and dated wallpaper.

"What the _fuck_ , Mustang?" Fullmetal rasps out. "This is your damned—"

"You said you wanted somewhere safe to talk. I can think of no other place beside my office that fills this qualification. Now come inside and shut the door."

He tosses his keys onto a narrow table and hooks his coat on a wall hanger, doesn't wait for the young man's response before he makes his way through the first archway.

Ludicrous, but necessary.

He slides on a single glove. His fingers snap. A fire leaps into the hearth, catching against the pile of tinder and elder branches already there, casting a flickering red-yellow glow over his living room. A half-empty decanter of bourbon sits on his coffee table, crouched atop an academic paper and a few scribbled notes. A wrinkled uniform jacket hangs over the armrest of a plush leather couch.

He unbuttons the jacket he's wearing and tosses it onto its twin as Fullmetal takes a wary step into the room.

The fire pops and crackles, and the decanter catches its light, reflecting it off the leather couch and Mustang's favourite armchair. But the unease is thick and cold; it reaches out from the oversized, frost-lined window to pluck at his shoulders and knot the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. He shrugs it off as best he can, ignores the whisper that the liquid heat of the bourbon might help. Turns to Fullmetal.

The golden light from the hallway lamps and the flickering glow from the fireplace cast the blond's face into a sharp relief. Mustang can clearly see the quick beat of the young man's pulse beneath his jaw and the half-frantic movement of his shadowed eyes as they dart about the room, taking it all in. Cracked leather couch, worn armchair, bourbon-burdened coffee table. Windows half-hidden behind curtains. The archway and, just beyond, a quick dash out the door and into the failing light.

That feral animal is still wearing Fullmetal's skin, Mustang realizes, and playing along with its demands hasn't done anything.

What he needs, then, is a new method of attack.

"You owe me an explanation, Fullmetal." His voice is still steady at least, even though the icy tendrils have pierced his skin and have burrowed into his lungs. "And you're not leaving until I'm satisfied that you've told me the truth."

Another beat of hesitation. Fullmetal swallows once, twice, then—miraculously—nods.


End file.
